Just Yesterday
by bellatrixD
Summary: All the Weasleys are summoned to the Burrow after hearing of Arthur's accident, where Teddy, Victoire and Fred II think back on their most memorable moments with their grandfather. Inspired from Ed Sheeran's 'Afire Love'


_My first one-shot/fanfic not revolved around romance! Or the Weasley twins! Decided to reward myself after my second exam (seems to be a theme, promise I won't do it after every exam) and TA-DA - the one-shot I've been meaning to do for ages._

 _First time writing Harry Potter next generation._

 _Inspired from Ed Sheeran's 'Afire Love'. And from personal experience with my grandfather's death from dementia two years ago._

 _Disclaimer: Undergoing editing._

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Just Yesterday

* * *

It seemed like just yesterday, Teddy thought as he strode up the yard to the Burrow, just yesterday where he played on the familiar land he walked upon. Where had the years gone? He didn't know. Time had been stolen from him, he needed more of it.

No, not him, not yet. But there was never enough for anyone, was there?

The flowers he remembered Molly planting, rose bushes, magnolias, carnations, dahlias, bright and colourful in full bloom surrounded him with luscious, floral scents. Lavender was planted right beside the door – his favourite. At six years of age he had helped Molly plant them, kneeling on the ground and digging up the soil with gloved hands, his hair shimmering in an identical hue and dirt decorating his face. The still lake, glittering under the golden sun. The grass long on the field, dandelions protruding and blowing in the breeze like butterflies, but the garden neat and green. He could just about make out the rustic Quidditch pitch, a great improvement from the archaic paddock.

Watching over the Burrow's land the years played out before him, a dreamy haze in the feathers of light; family weekends, birthdays, hot summer swims, Quidditch games, new baby parties, barbecues. In that one setting he saw his life and family. He wondered if Arthur could remember.

A pop came from behind. Victoire, ethereal in her angelic beauty heightened by a white summer dress and blonde halo, linked her hand in his. No words passed between the two, there was no need. They were all summoned, the parchment heavy and crumpled in his hand. Who was inside? And who had yet to come?

The shed stood tall and crooked, veiled under a dark cloud that threatened a grand storm. Each wall was painted uniquely. Red and blue handprints Teddy recognised as his own from childhood to adolescence. Beside them his cousins and their own murals. A large wolf took up a portion of the wall facing the house, galloping in place and howling to the sky. It morphed into a handsome man embracing a woman, beautiful and quirky with her ever-changing hair, exactly like the baby in her arms.

"Ted," Victoire spoke, so quietly, respecting the calm. "Come on."

He nodded, but made no move to step further up to his home.

Arthur had helped him paint the shed. In fact, it was he who had started the tradition of immortalising art and memories from years past on the dying shack.

Teddy had snuck out of the Burrow upon the birth of a new baby. He hadn't known who it was at the time, but he hated him, the little boy snuggled in his Ginny's arms, suckling away the attention from him. Harry was no better, frozen at the sight of his son. Molly was supporting them for the first few months with the new-born, and Teddy, having thought it would be a chance to play, joined them, only to be introduced to the shrivelled little chicken and then thoroughly ignored.

The lake had been his first destination, but the door to the shed was open, and inside, humming and singing and tinkering away at his gadgets, was Arthur. His feet led him to peer inside. Arthur held a rectangular object of sorts with a string hanging off it. The two nubs at the end looked very peculiar indeed. Arthur looked just as confused by it as Teddy was, placing them into each nostril experimentally. Teddy watched, but nothing happened. Arthur's face lit up, a genius light bulb moment, something Molly was always weary of. Taking them out of his nose, he then wiped them on his cloak, and with a grin, placed them in his ears. His face almost instantly contorted, and Teddy shrieked.

Arthur jumped, buds falling out of his ears.

"Oh, Teddy!" Arthur gasped, kneeling down to inspect the boy. "What's the matter?"

He was panting and used his little hands to tilt Arthur's worried face this way and that.

"Teddy?"

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"Me? Of course I'm alright! Look – no holes in my fingers this time." Arthur wiggled his fingers in Teddy's face, plasters adorning several from his previous incident involving a stapler. "Are you okay?"

Teddy nodded. "I thought you hurt."

His confusion washed away, and Arthur chuckled. "Oh, no, no. See, the music was just a little loud – I don't quite know how to work the volume yet but how hard can it be? Come, let me show you. Your Aunt Minnie must have left it the last time she visited – just don't tell Nana Molly I was playing with it, our little secret."

Arthur led Teddy over to the bench and pulled him onto his lap once he sat down. The gadget had fallen to the ground, but was remarkably still in one piece. Upon closer inspection, Teddy could see buttons and a green square of picture on the top half. Teddy, transfixed to the object, gasped when Arthur pushed on a button and a blue light lit up the screen, revealing text and symbols.

"Wow," Teddy gasped. "What is it?"

"This, Teddy, is a fellytone. But not one of the old ones which are stuck to the wall or have a wire that always gets tangled, this one's _portable_."

"What's that?"

"It means you can take it with you anywhere in the world. It can take pictures, and it has games, and music, and it calls other people with phones instead of using owls."

The string was plucked out of the fellytone, and music blasted out, disturbing the silence of the shed. Teddy covered his ears as Arthur fumbled with the numerous buttons. It silenced eventually, and the two burst out into awed laughter.

"Let's see what this does, shall we?" Arthur asked, bobbing Teddy up and down on his knee. Teddy would have moaned about being too old to be Arthur-coddled (the term mollycoddled being reserved for Molly, for no one could mollycoddle better than Nana Molly), but he was having too much fun, and the bouncing made him dizzy. It reminded him of being spun around by his Uncle George.

A white light flashed in their faces, blurring their eyes with bubbles of colour moments after it faded away. The two blinked and blinked until their eyes came into focus again. Looking at the square screen was a mirror image of the table top, the exact point the fellytone was facing.

"Found the camera," Arthur said. He laughed when he saw Teddy rolling his eyes comically, as if his eyesight was still fuzzy.

The little boy snatched the fellytone out of Arthur's hand, turned it around and pressed the button. Once again the flash appeared, followed by the colours and the dizziness. On the screen, making silly faces was Teddy and Arthur.

"Here, look at your nose, Ted," Arthur said, pointing at Teddy's nose that had morphed into the beginnings of a slight trunk.

"My nose!" Teddy laughed. "Look at your eyes."

Arthur's eyes, instead of the usual blue, had a red tint to them.

"Oh dear," Arthur murmured. "They're alright now, aren't they?"

Teddy leaned in closer to his face, but there was only his dazzling cerulean. "They good."

"That's a relief. Imagine what your Nana Molly would have said."

Just the thought of the scolding matriarch had the two trembling in faux fear.

"What are you doing outside, Ted?" Arthur asked.

His light mood dampened again, and he looked down, avoiding Arthur's gaze. He sighed heavily and answered when he was nudged gently.

"I don't like it inside," Teddy huffed, crossing his arms.

"Why not? Don't you like the new baby? That's your little brother."

Teddy hadn't thought of the new baby as his brother, he was more of a gremlin. But the thought of being an older sibling warmed him somewhat.

"S'not my brother," Teddy sniffled, shaking his head tersely. "They don't love me."

"That's nonsense, Teddy. Everyone loves you! Nana Andy loves you, Nana Molly loves you, Harry and Ginny love you, all your uncles and aunts, Victoire and your other cousins. I love you. Where did you get that idea?"

"No, they don't love me! They love little chicken boy."

Arthur's frown lasted seconds before his lips twitched, threatening a smile.

"Listen to me, Teddy. Who tucked you into bed last night?"

"Uncle Harry."

"And who helped you bathe this morning?"

"Nana Molly."

"And who combed your hair?"

"Aunt Ginny."

"And who gives the best granddad hugs?"

Teddy smiled up at Arthur. "You."

Arthur brushed his hand through Teddy's now orange hair. "We _all_ love you. But now that you're a big brother you have to share Harry and Ginny with your brother, just like you share all of us with your cousins. But you'll have much more fun with a brother, you get to teach him how to play Quidditch and all of your Uncle George's pranks, Ginny's special hex. Team up against your Uncle Harry. You can have sleepovers with him every night. Doesn't that sound fun?"

The young boy snivelled once again and rubbed the back of his hand against his runny nose. "I want my mum and dad."

It wasn't the first time he had said it in front of the Weasley's, but Arthur felt the depth of the words thousands of times harder, knowing it wasn't spoken in a fit of anger but from insecurity, hitting him in his gut until it plummeted to the bottom of the earth from the intensity of it. Everyone had always made sure Teddy did not feel ostracised, like the outsider of the Weasleys and Potters. They smothered him with love and affection as they did to all their descendants.

Teddy couldn't stop the tears. He didn't hate Harry and Ginny, of course not! But they loved their baby, were so utterly obsessed in only hours of him being born. Teddy didn't have anyone to love him that deeply. In his head he cried for his parents, resented them for being the heroes and martyrs they were destined to be. He'd rather they be typical parents with him.

That day was so clear to him. Even after all the years past he could remember every thought and feeling he had in those moments. But Arthur had been there for him. Arthur had helped him open his eyes to the world and all its masked miracles.

He saw Young Teddy and Arthur, hand in hand, walk out of the shed and walk around the field. He could hear every reassurance of love from Arthur, felt every hug and smile. He watched Arthur look over his shoulder, making sure Molly wasn't aware of his intentions, and then he grabbed a garden gnome and lobbed it far away, urging Teddy to copy. They laughed when Arthur caught another and it bit his finger. Arthur had Teddy kiss it better, his beaming smile presenting his recovery.

It was when they arrived back to the shed Arthur founded the idea of painting out his feelings.

"You know, Ted, your parents are loving you right now. They're watching you and are bursting with pride and love. Just because it's not them tucking you in at night doesn't mean they're not with you. When Aunt Ginny and Uncle Harry go to bed it's your mum and dad who stay with you for the whole entire night, making sure you have sweet dreams. They'd be so proud at what a good big brother you are going to be. Let's honour them, a memorial to last forever and ever, right here."

Then the painting began. Arthur had pots and brushes stored in a corner in his shed and had charmed Teddy's wolf and the mutating hair. By the end of it they probably had more paint on themselves than on the wall.

Granddad Arthur, with his thinning red hair, plastered fingers that constantly fidgeted with new toys, blue eyes that sparkled with humour, enthusiasm and love.

Was it the same man lying, dying in bed?

Victoire squeezed his hand, both trembling as they looked down upon their grandfather sleeping soundly. Arthur looked to have aged twenty years in the past nine. No longer was there any vibrant colour on his head, only patches of cotton white on bald freckled skin. Hundreds of lines were engraved into his pallid skin. And, although his eyes were shut, Teddy was sure that there would be no hint of recognition when they opened. There hadn't been in quite some time, not completely. Not to him or his cousins.

"What happened?" he heard a voice ask, and as it settled in his mind, he realised the hoarse croak was his own.

"Fell down the stairs. Silly fool thought he could manage," came the tired voice of Molly Weasley, seated beside her husband, her withered hand clasping his.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

A sniff from Molly, and then: "Very."

Victoire whimpered beside him, curling herself into his side.

"The healer's just gone, given him more potions."

"But?"

"But she said not to hope for much."

He didn't need to ask what. The message was frighteningly ominous, and yet the entire family had been anticipating it for years, almost nine, but hearing it was as if it was utterly unexpected.

x-x-x

The kitchen was not warm as she would have expected it to be. Rather, it was chilly, cold enough for her to imagine her breath misting in front of her. Victoire quickly made a cup of tea, grabbing the first mug on the counter, and sat at the table. She didn't really want tea. She could only hope its warmth would be strong enough to bring her to life.

Molly Weasley was the strongest woman Victoire knew. Never had a woman gone through so much, maintaining unwavering strength through it all, only to be bombed with more anguish and heartbreak. And yet through humiliating remarks, a crumbling house, poverty, two devastating wars, the death of a child, and the life threatening disease of the one who had stood by her side through it all, Molly was still holding on.

But to what?

Life was but a game of chance, and she was fortunate to have cheated life several times, always coming out on top.

Because of hope.

The beautiful buzz and clarity of hope had Molly Weasley soldering on, fighting for her family. And now, being told not to hope. They'd been warned of it before, in regards to Arthur's failing health, and Molly had always shrugged the healers off, taking fate into her own hands and ailing life's infections.

Only, Arthur hadn't seriously wounded himself before. And now he had in the severe stage of his Alzheimer's (a muggle disease, the healer had notified them years ago, incurable and consistently detrimental), and Molly Weasley didn't know what to do. Not even magic could help her now.

Victoire bit her to lip to stifle the sob tickling its way up her throat. She averted her eyes to the scenery outside the window. It seemed just like yesterday that her grandparents had danced in the garden at Christmas, under the light of the moon and stars as snow rained down on them. She could see the ghost of their past, held in each other's arms, gently swaying in spite of the cold. Celestina Warbeck was playing on the radio, a ghastly record, but one of Molly's favourites, and everyone allowed Molly the pleasure of her music on Christmas. Her grandmother's lips were mouthing the lyrics, interrupted only by Arthur pressing his lips to hers.

They were all nestled in the living room and the kitchen, adorned in their unique Weasley jumpers with mugs of hot chocolate, butterbeer or egg nog spiked with a touch of firewhiskey. Many of the parents had retreated to the privacy of their homes after Christmas dinner, leaving the next generation to mingle.

The scene changed, but only by moments, and if Victoire contemplated really hard she would have thought it the first sign of her grandfather's illness. How silly she had been to dismiss back then.

He twirled into the kitchen, waltzing with the Christmas atmosphere as the snowflakes melted on his hair and jumper. Victoire giggled over the rim of her newly filled mug of hot chocolate, and soon Arthur had her in his arms dancing with him. He swung her around the cramped kitchen, bumping into corners and edges until Molly called for her tea.

"How's your Christmas been, Vicky?" Arthur asked, waving his wand at the kettle where it began boiling.

"It's been wonderful. Thanks for the fountain pen and paints, they're gorgeous," Victoire replied. Every year Arthur gifted his children and grandchildren with muggle gifts and always attempted to make them unique. Victoire had stunning calligraphy and was something of an amateur artist, so naturally, Arthur had brought her presents she would know how to utilise.

Her heart panged; Arthur had not been able to give any presents out over the years. He didn't know what to give, or who to, and Molly had never been as infatuated with muggle knickknacks as her husband. Her replacements only serves as a reminder to the spiral life was spinning down.

"Oh, it's not a problem, love. Now, the fountain pen – it doesn't actually turn into a fountain, does it?"

"If it did I'd say the muggles are becoming incredibly advanced in their engineering," Victoire grinned.

"Ah, but what clever beings they are."

"Grandad, the water's done," Victoire said, noticing the high shrill of the kettle.

"Oh, it would seem so. Did you need it for something?" he asked, holding it up.

"How much firewhiskey did Uncle Charlie put in your egg nog? You were making tea for Nana."

Arthur nodded vigorously. "Of course! Tea – it's coming, love!"

Victoire smiled as Arthur faded away into the next room. He had held Molly in his arms through the night on the sofa, singing to her softly, surrounded by the laughter of their grandchildren. Young Victoire had watched her grandparents, so in love decades into their marriage, admiration and trials of anguish only fuelling their bond. Her gaze had flickered over to Teddy, across the room sharing stories with their cousins, his hair a mixture of turquoise and Weasley red. In that single look she had pictured a future, a future just like Molly's and Arthur's where love conquered all.

The details of that night were crystal clear, the whispers from Arthur asking Molly to hold him, the smell of Christmas – cinnamon, wine, ginger, chocolate – the comfort of her jumper and woollen socks against the chill seeping in through the many cracks in the house.

What stuck with her the most were the sweet kisses shared between her grandparents, gross to all but her. In her room at Shell Cottage sat a sketch of that scene, animated with the soft touches.

"Vicky."

So entranced with the memory Victoire had not noticed her extended family entering the Burrow and occupying its many rooms. George stood behind her, his ever joyful face in one of its rare worried glances.

"Hi, Uncle George," Victoire greeted.

"Have you been up yet?" he asked, seating himself down beside her. He took one of her hands.

She nodded and felt her lip quiver. "It's horrible. Why is this happening to him?"

The first tear escaped and trailed down her face. Instantly she was held in her Uncle's strong arms, her face nestled in his shoulder.

"It's not fair!"

George did not reply but with rubs on her back and kisses on her head. He knew physical comfort to be of the utmost important. He knew. After Fred had died he did not want reassurances, they were no good to him, a breaking, dying young man. He had needed someone to hold him together. It was the least he could do.

She cried into his shoulder, cursing the injustice of the world for inflicting such pain on Arthur and her family. Had they not gone through enough? What would Molly do without him? Who would hold her together when everyone went home?

She wanted her father, but he was most likely with his parents.

"I don't want him to die," Victoire whispered once her sobs alleviated.

"Everyone's on a countdown, love. Our hourglasses are turned from the second we're born. The sand's falling. It happens to be your grandfather's fire to be blown out now."

"Since when were you a poet?"

He chuckled, pressed one last kiss into her hair before extracting his arms.

"How else do you think I managed to snag your Aunt Angie? That woman won't roll over for flowers and chocolates. Let's go see if Nana Molly needs anything, yeah?"

She held his hand all the way up the stairs, remembering all the times her grandfather had been there for her with a recovering hug and kiss when she was teased into livid fury, or when she fell over and scraped her knee, and even the one incident where she got too close to a chicken and it pecked at her. It had been Arthur to give her an extra sweet after dinner, maybe even a secret piece before behind his wife's back.

They reached the landing just as Bill stepped out of the room. Victoire had only ever seen her father cry a handful of times, many of them joyous occasions, but his mangled face drooped in obvious distress, and it hurt her heart even more.

Bill nodded to them, stroked his daughter's face before retreating downstairs. Inhaling deeply, Victoire approached the door and peered inside.

No longer was Molly Weasley sitting beside her husband, but she lay next to him, watching him as the light streaming in from the window enveloped them, encasing them in gold. It was just like yesterday, Victoire thought, seeing them in a similar position as her and Teddy jumped on them in the morning. Molly pressed her lips on Arthur's skin, her face crumpling as she folded into him, their bodies fitting comfortably together. She smiled down at him, and Victoire could vaguely hear the telling of more memorable moments with the family.

It was an intimate moment, one Victoire felt she was intruding upon, but she could not tear her eyes away from the raw love presented before her.

She watched until their hearts beat as one for the last time.

Molly's sorrow silenced all activity. The storm cloud cried over the Burrow.

x-x-x

"It's a bit too fine a day for this," Charlie said, sitting down in the front row amongst his brothers, sister and mother.

"It's perfect," George said, inhaling the breeze.

"What makes you think so?"

"The angels are preparing heaven. They're waiting to open the gates for him. Fred's waiting."

How had it come to this already? Fred didn't know. It had seemed just yesterday his grandfather was alive and healthy. Arthur had always been a sparkling soul, saw the light in darkness and good in all. He was an extraordinary man until the devil had infected him and snatched his breath away.

"He's no longer in pain," Fred heard, no longer taking into account who the voice belonged to.

Molly was sat between Bill and George, her hands clasped tightly into their own. Her eyes were red and moist, but her face was empty, devoid of all emotion. She had howled her pain out, and all that remained were the perpetual ashes of yet another death. No dementor's kiss could have compared to her desolation.

Yes, perhaps Arthur was free from mortal pain, but Molly most certainly was not, enduring the heaviest torment of all.

The service was short and sweet, the sun shining down on the new wedge of stone beside another. Flowers, Molly's roses, magnolias, lavenders and lilies, sat before both. He wished it were raining. At least then it would seem real, the sky crying with them, mourning the loss of a magnificent wizard.

It seemed just yesterday that Fred had learned of his grandfather's disease eating away at his memory. He'd been only six years old. His hands and clothes were stained with paint from hand painting on the shed walls. It was a sweltering hot summer day and he had been craving a thirst for ice cold lemonade. Deciding not to bother Teddy, who was being taught the skill of painting a bird by Victoire, or Molly II who had managed to fall into a tray of green paint, he ran inside, colliding into a body.

Arthur's hands steadied him, chuckling at seeing the mess on the young boy.

"Oh dear," he'd said. "What's happened to you, eh?"

And then he looked at Fred's face, and his smile fell.

"Hello. You're not one of mine. Who are you?"

Fred frowned, unsure on whether his grandfather was joking with him or not.

"Gramps?"

Arthur watched the boy, but his face portrayed confusion.

"Gramps, it's me, Fred. D'you wanna see my picture?"

"You're not Fred."

"I am!"

"No," he declared, shaking his head, his face an unattractive red. "No, you're not Fred. How dare you? How cruel! My Fred's dead. My Fred, my little boy…"

"Gramps?"

He shook, from his shaking bones and Arthur's hands, his voice loud in reaffirming his son's death. Fred could do nothing but cry until his father had separated them.

"Fred?" Arthur called, watching George. His face pinched. "No, you can't be, Fred's…no. George?"

"It's alright, dad," George said, hugging Fred tightly. "This is Fred, my son, remember?"

"Fred?"

"Yeah, that's right. Fred Weasley II. Your grandson."

Arthur struggled to comprehend the words. Molly entered and ushered him to the living room, insisting he needed to get off his feet and out of the sun. He followed without question.

"Dad?" Fred asked his father, wiping his face free of tears, forgetting the paint colouring his skin. "What's wrong with Gramps?"

A sad smile adorned George's face. "It's not your fault, Freddie, nor his. Your granddad's not well. It's his memory, it's not as good as it used to be. Don't worry, it's not only you."

"Does he hate me?"

"Of course not! Listen, Fred, your granddad is just going to be a bit out of sorts for a while. You need to be strong and just remind him. He won't forget he loves you. Ever. Okay?"

Fred nodded and embraced his father around the neck.

But Arthur had forgotten he loved Fred. He had forgotten him completely after a few years, and no amount of prompting could have healed his memory of him.

Teddy stood from his seat and, a rectangular object in hand, approached the grave and lowered the fellytone down, the exact same one given to him by Arthur. Charmed on the screen was the first picture taken of the two, Young Teddy and Younger Healthy Arthur, their faces twisted amusingly.

Victoire was next, a rolled up parchment in hand, and upon unravelling it showed an image of Arthur and Molly cuddled on the sofa in the Burrow, sharing kisses and lyrics and eternal love. Two fingers travelled from her lips to the stone.

One by one the Weasley grandchildren decorated the grave with an object. Fred could think of nothing significant, nothing he shared personally with his grandfather that could so easily be set down in a material object. When it was his turn, he pulled out the spherical item from pocket and placed it cautiously atop the stone. It was a Remembrall enchanted to slide between pictures of each of the Weasley children and grandchildren..

"I hope you remember us now, Gramps," Fred murmured, then turned back to his seat.

The crowd bowed their heads in respect for the fallen hero, whimpers and cries breaking the silence. The minister announced the end. Peace.

George stood up, his wand held aloft, and from it emanated an orange glow. Charlie stood, and mimicked his brother. Then Bill, and Ginny and Percy and Ron and Molly, and one by one the audience, a sea of black, stood and raised their wands with fire for Arthur Weasley.


End file.
